Behind the Trapdoors
by ThePenWieldingRose
Summary: Erik has his sights set on Christine and has several plans in motion to get his way in the Opera Garnier when a stranger is found by Madame Giry and hired as a cleaning girl and seamstress. Suddenly, everything has gone askew, and it's all because she dared to follow him through the darkness and into his world behind the trapdoors... ErikXOC
1. Chapter One

**Phantom of the Opera – Behind the Trapdoors…**

**Chapter One**

The snow drifted to the ground, coating everything in its path. The stars winked gently upon the streets snow-coated streets of Paris below, their glow mystic and gentle compared to the brash lamplight of the walkways. People scurried to their homes, eager to get out of the cold and bleakness of the night. They avoided the lone, tattered figure that made her way towards the alley by the grand opera house.

Clutching at her threadbare cloak with frozen fingers, the girl took a moment to gaze up at the building's beauty. A smile worked its way onto her chapped, blue lips, as memories of a happier time danced in her mind. Adjusting her wicker basket onto the crook of her elbow, she stepped into the darkened pathway by the _Palais Garnier_, her tired grey eyes searching for a resting place.

"_There."_ There was a set of crates that were to be taken away, creating a barrier from the rest of the alley and the door that provided a way into the opera house through the backstage and worn corridors. Her breath came out a slow puff of smoke, her body engulfed in the chill the air readily offered. Setting herself down onto the slush coated floor, she curled into a ball and looked about cautiously before taking out a stale piece of bread and tentatively biting into it. Her stomach had been assaulted with hunger for days since she ran away, but she hadn't dared to eat any of her food until now. She chewed the bread pensively, wondering what to do next now that she had made it to Paris. She knew she had an uncle who lived in the area, but she had never seen or met him, which would make things extremely difficult. She was already a poor, bedraggled peasant in the eyes of passersby and those of great status…even if she did find him, would the servants even consider letting her come into his home and see him?

The door swung open suddenly, startling her out of her thoughts as an elderly woman stepped into the night, hissing curses as she checked her basket.

"_Mon Dieu_, how could I have forgotten the brandy for him?!" the woman's voice crackled, the feather in her bonnet fluttering and bobbing above her head. Pursing her lips in frustration, she turned her head to glare at the darkness when she noticed the young girl staring at her with intrigue. "What's the matter, girl? Never seen a woman going out to make a last minute purchase?" she snapped, already in a foul mood.

"Your dress is torn," the girl commented quietly, stunning the old woman. The child was at least twenty, from what she could tell, and her voice was as sweet and soothing as a nightingale. "…may I fix it for you?"

"Fix it?" the old woman repeated, glancing down to see the irksome tear in her ash-black skirt. "I haven't got any string-"

"I do," the girl offered, slipping her bare hand into the basket and withdrawing a spool of matching thread and a thin, shining needle. "I won't be long."

"Just what makes you think I'll let you?" she huffed, though the girl intrigued her, so she walked over to the child and let her get to work. She watched as she girl shivered, her body softly quaking as she worked. Her fingers, though stiff and cold, managed to move deftly, making each stitch count as she fixed the skirt. It wasn't but a minute later when she bit the thread and scooted away from the old woman.

"That should do it," she nodded, putting her belongings back into the basket.

"Well…!" The elder knelt down and checked the skirt, her fingertips caressing the fabric where it had been stripped apart earlier thanks to a loose nail in the floorboards. The skirt felt like silk, as if it had never been ruined. "You have some talent," she nodded gratefully at the girl. "Seamstress?"

"Yes and no," the girl smiled, blushing as she coughed into a worn out handkerchief tucked away into her sleeve.

"I suppose I'll have to pay you," the old woman said, reaching into her own basket when the girl shook her head.

"No, Madame, all I ask is you let me stay in this corner until morning," the girl responded, tightening her hold on her cloak as a breeze blew by.

The woman squinted, struggling to get a better look at the figure in the dark, contemplating a notion in her head. "…are you looking for work?"

She blinked at the question, stunned at first, before answering, "For the time being, yes, Madame."

"Hmm…" The old woman tapped her cheek decisively before offering the girl her hand. "Go on, take my hand, child. I won't bite," she reassured the girl, helping her to her feet. "There is a room inside that is used for old costumes that are in dire need of repair. It's to your left, just down the hall to the third door on your left again. There's a cot there – you may spend the night and then I'll have you put to work once I speak with the managers."

"Madame-" the girl began to protest.

"Don't argue with me, or I'll change my mind," the elder huffed indignantly, her feathered bonnet wavering as she jutted her chin out in defiance. "I can assure you it's better in there than out here."

The girl stared at the woman, startling her with a gentle, heartwarming smile that slowly graced her weary but beautiful face. "_Merci_, Madame. You are too kind."

"Bah," the woman spat, rolling her eyes. "I must go. Remember, when you enter-"

"Turn left and find the third door to my left once more," the girl cut her off, nodding her understanding. "Thank you again, Madame-"

"Giry. I am Madame Giry, concierge for this fine establishment," she beamed as she spoke, her chest sticking out a bit as her feather continued to quiver and bob at her movements. "But what is your name?"

"Angelique Archambault," she introduced herself, curtsying to the elder, startling her even more so.

"_Such a strange child…"_ "Very well, Angelique. Go to your room and I shall return shortly," she promised, bowing her head to her before taking off rather quickly for a woman of her age.

Angelique watched the old woman leave before cautiously turning the knob of the door and entering the building, the warmth of the establishment rushing through her. She gave a relieved sigh before shutting the door once more, looking about as she warily stepped down the hall as she had been instructed, making her way to the third door. Entering the room, she gasped as she saw an assortment of gorgeous fabrics and outfits that were torn and worn, in dire need of repair. She dared to let her fingers slide over one of the nearest dresses, its shimmering champagne hue calling to her.

Setting her basket onto the floor by the cot, she pulled her hood off of her head and released her auburn locks from their hold. As the bun was undone and came down in tangled waves, she sat on the rickety bed and sighed, exhausted and thankful all at once. From somewhere towards the front of the opera, she could hear a woman singing to the eager audience, her voice resounding in the air, though a bit pompous and overbearing at some notes. Her mother's face flickered into her mind, her voice floating in her memory. Prompted by the happy thought, she couldn't help but sing out softly.

"_Au clair de la lune_

_Mon ami Pierrot,_

_Prête-moi ta plume,_

_Pour écrire un mot…"_

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she did so, her knuckles quickly wiping them away. Heaving another melancholy sigh, she lay herself down on the cot and closed her eyes, weeping still. As she drifted off to sleep, she dreamed that an angelic voice sang sweetly to her, as if to comfort her after all she had been through and assist her on her way into Slumberland.

"–_Ouvrez votre porte,__  
__Pour le Dieu d'Amour…"_

* * *

**A/N:** I own nothing except the OC. "Phantom of the Opera" is by Gaston Leroux and "Au clair de la lune" is a French folk song I definitely don't own.

I hope you enjoyed it and will consider coming back once I have another chapter written. And if anyone out there is interested in seeing an animated Phantom film come to life, check out this awesome project on Kickstarter under the same name as the book and consider helping out :) Thanks again and I'll see you all next time!


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

She could hear someone speaking as she swam in the darkness, her consciousness slowly returning to her as her eyelids fluttered open. With a soft moan, she gently rubbed the sleep out of her eyes before yawning and sitting up in bed. _"What a strange dream…an angel was singing me off to sleep…"_

"Oh good, you're awake."

Angelique turned her head to see Madame Giry entering the room, two figures hovering behind her. Getting to her feet, she curtsied to the woman and smiled at the sight of a tray of freshly made biscuits, porridge, tea, and fruit. "_Merci_, Madame."

"Think nothing of it," she waved it off after setting the meal on a barren table. "Before you eat, I'd like to introduce you to the gentlemen who run the _Palais Garnier_." She waved for them to step forth, to which they did and stood before the girl. "This is Monsieur Richard and Monsieur Moncharmin, the managers. Monsieurs, this is the mademoiselle of which I mentioned."

"So we see," Richard noted, raising an eyebrow at the homely girl. "Madame Giry tells us you can fix clothing with ease."

"I do my best, Monsieur," she admitted humbly.

"Perhaps we can come to an agreement," Moncharmin offered, friendlier in countenance and tone than his partner. "Pick one outfit here that needs repair, and if you can fix it by the end of the day, we will hire you as a seamstress."

She nodded at the idea, her eyes shining in excitement at the prospect. "Thank you, Monsieurs, that's very kind of you-"

"Don't thank us just yet, you haven't proven yourself," Richard waved it off.

"She shall," Madame Giry said stubbornly. "I must be off, but I shall return later to check on you, my dear." Leaning towards the girl, she whispered in her ear, "Good luck" before taking off after the gentlemen, leaving Angelique alone in the room.

Heaving a sigh, she went to her meal and sat it in front of her on the bed, famished and grateful for what she had. She ate heartily, her eyes wandering about the room before they fell upon a gown that appeared to be falling apart. "Ah," she whispered, her lips stretching into a smile. "You'll do perfectly." She could see cupboards and shelves of materials coated lightly in dust, neglected for the longest time in almost a year. Setting the tray off to the side, she slipped her cloak off of her shoulders and set to work, selecting fabrics, threads, ribbons, lace, and tiny gems to repair the gown. Laying everything before her, she measured, cut, sewed, then repeated the actions as needed, the dress consuming her attention. It was not until hours later when a soft gasp at the door caused her to stop and look up from her work.

"Oh, my!" a dark-haired girl exclaimed, gaping and pointing at the nearly-finished dress with her companion. "It's absolutely lovely!"

"Thank you," Angelique smiled, chuckling at how skittish and giggly they were. "Come in if you'd like."

The two ballerinas did so, curling their fingers in delight at the gorgeous spectacle before them. "Oh, mademoiselle, would you make gowns for the rest of us? Oh, please?!" the younger begged, her eyes shining with hope at Angelique.

"I suppose I could, but I have no idea if I'll be able to. I haven't been hired just yet," she informed them as she got back to work.

"You're the lady that Maman found last night, aren't you?" the first girl spoke up, earning her attention. "Maman was right – you're amazing! The managers will hire you, you'll see," she winked knowingly.

Smiling sweetly at the girls, she said, "You're both very kind…what are your names?"

"I'm Meg Giry and this is little Jammes," the ballerina explained.

"I'm not _that_ little, I'm just a year younger than you!" Jammes pouted, earning a laugh from the seamstress.

"It's a pleasure to meet you both. My name is Angelique," she introduced herself with a nod of her head.

"Mademoiselle Angelique, won't you come join us for dinner? And supper afterwards?!" Jammes asked excitedly.

"Well, if I could finish this gown-"

"She must finish the dress first, silly, then when Monsieurs Moncharmin and Richard officially hire her, she can come with us," Meg scolded the girl. Curtsying to the older girl, she beamed and added, "Don't worry, we'll bring you something to eat – might we used that tray you left? You keep at it, we'll be back soon."

"_Merci_, ladies," she winked at them, grateful to have some friends. She watched them scurry away before giggling herself and selecting another gem to add to the bodice of the gown. _"Just a little more stitching by the collar, and then…ah!"_ Setting the needle and excess thread aside, she got to her feet and stepped back, admiring her work. The gown shimmered in a soft gold hue, with subtle touches of lace and precious sequins adorning the outfit in the right places. Her stitches were so well done that the gown appeared to have come in one piece. The skirt billowed out from the narrow bodice, their sleeves puffed out just so, but not too much, and with a sweet little bow made from a velvet ribbon upon the collarbone the ensemble was complete.

Flexing her fingers, she couldn't help but smile at how the gown had come out. Elated that she had finished by dinnertime, she tapped her finger against her cheek as a notion came to mind. "You need a partner," she murmured, starting off back to the cabinets. Humming softly, she began to pick out a rich cobalt material when she heard another voice humming along with her, as if echoing in harmony with her. Her brows furrowed as she looked about, wondering who could be in the room. She walked towards the door, wondering if perhaps a man was close by, poking her head into the hall.

Not a single soul stood outside or nearby, causing her to raise an eyebrow at the incident. "Odd," she muttered, entering the room once more and shaking her head as she returned towards the worktable and materials. _"I must be imagining things…"_ She stopped in her tracks, her eyes falling upon a piece of parchment that lay upon the fabric she had selected not moments ago.

"Where did this come from…?" she whispered, her fingers outstretched. She cautiously picked up the paper and found herself staring wide-eyed in awe at the design of an elegant, handsome, and smartly drawn suit, the perfect accompaniment for the gown she had created. "Oh my," she breathed, a soft smile stretching over her chapped lips as she gazed upon the beautiful concept before her. "It's perfect-"

"We brought some stew and bread, Mad'moiselle Angelique," Jammes called out as she and Meg stepped back into the room with a tray full of steaming food that made her mouth water.

Her head turned to see them enter, her mind still spinning from questions that constantly prodded at her. "Oh, thank you," she said, still holding the design in her hands. "Girls…the strangest thing has just happened."

"What's that?" Meg asked, placing the meal upon a little table by the bedside.

"Oooh! Meg, look! The dress is finished!" Jammes squealed, clapping in delight as she saw the dress restored to a glorious new being.

"I just finished the last details and decided to start a second project," Angelique explained, smiling shyly as the girls gawked from her to the dress and back. Her brows furrowed again, however, at the memory of what had happened, her smile fading. "As I went to get more materials I was humming, and then I heard someone humming along…I could have sworn it was a man."

The girls exchanged glanced, their faces paling, their eyes widening.

"I went to the door to check and see what was going on, but there was no one out in the hall. When I came back, I found this on the bolt of cloth I'd chosen." She showed them the elaborate sketch, hoping for answers. "It's the strangest thing…I don't suppose you know who did this, do you? Apparently, they write in red ink." _"And almost impossible for me to read – this looks as if it were scribbled down as quickly as possible."_

"It's him," Meg whispered, stepping away from the painting as if it were cursed.

"'Him'? 'Him' who?" she echoed, curious to know what all the drama was about.

"The…the Phantom of the Opera!" little Jammes gasped, looking over her shoulder at once, her eyes darting to and fro.

"The what?" Angelique asked, making a face of confusion.

"The Opera Ghost, he haunts the _Palais Garnier_!" Jammes insisted. "You _must_ have heard of him!"

"I'm afraid I haven't," she shook her head. "I fell asleep right away when I came in last night, and I got to work at once this morning, so no, I'm afraid I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

Meg opened her mouth to speak when the booming voice of Richard perpetrated the air and the two managers entered the room.

"Busy, are we?" sneered Richard, not amused at all that the dancing girls were distracting the stray from her work.

"_Mon Dieu_, it's fantastic!" exclaimed Moncharmin, his eyes growing large at the sight of the gown. A delighted smile stretched upon his face as he tapped incessantly upon his friend's shoulder. "Just look at it!"

"What are you talking about-? _Sacre Bleu_!" Richard took a step back to admire the work she had done, and in spite of himself, he felt his jaw drop. "I…I'm rather impressed."

The ballet girls wrung their hands anxiously as they awaited the managers' final decision, biting their lips and holding their breath. Angelique felt her heart thumping violently within her chest as she waited, daring to hope that they might say…

"Mademoiselle, we would be delighted if you would stay here and work as our new seamstress," Moncharmin beamed, elated that his partner was so dumbstruck he was still staring at the gown in awe. "I don't believe I've ever known anyone who could recreate such a lovely and complicated costume in such a short amount of time. The previous seamstress passed away months ago from what we were told, and since we are fairly new here, with all the responsibilities and…" He exchanged a look with Richard, who now had his full attention on Angelique, "…recent events…we haven't had the time to search one out. Won't you stay? You'll receive your pay upon completing each new costume and restoring it to its proper glory."

She curtsied to them, a glowing smile on her face. "It would be my honor, Monsieurs. Thank you so very much!"

"Don't thank us just yet," Richard held up a finger, his brows furrowing. "If you are truly committed to working here in the Opera Garnier, you must be willing to complete one other task since Madame Giry has gone into town for the day and has yet to return."

"And what is that, sirs?" she asked, stunned by their sudden solemn state.

"…you must prepare Box Five for tonight's performance."

* * *

**A/N:** My apologies in advance if the French spelling and terms are incorrect. I own nothing except Angelique and OCs to come. I hope you're all enjoying and please let me know what you thought of the chapter!

Please spread the word and support _**"The Phantom of the Opera - The Animated Film"** _on Kickstarter if you would like to see a faithful version of the original novel come to life through a beautifully created cartoon film!

Thanks again! Until next time!


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

"Stay away from any trapdoors you may find," Meg warned Angelique as she and Jammes guided her towards the infamous Box Five of the mysterious and dangerous Opera Ghost.

"Or _he_ might jump out from behind and grab you when you least expect it," Jammes whispered, her eyes darting to and fro as she anxiously looked about for any sign of the Phantom.

"I doubt this 'ghost' would have any interest in me," Angelique reassured them with a wry smile.

"That was a terrible trick of Monsieur Richard to pull on you," Meg scowled. "If Maman was here, she would have put up a fight. Funny, I don't remember her being out so long all day."

"Never mind that, Meg. I'll be alright, you'll see," she said, patting the ballerina's shoulder. "You two scurry along, I've got work to do."

The two girls cast her a final look, their eyes wide with concern and suspicion of the area, before taking off the way they came. As they hurried, they had to squeeze by a man carrying a rather large vase filled with roses. He gulped as he nearly had a misstep before giving a breath of relief and grumbling as he moved on towards the entrance. He was so preoccupied with the vase and hallway that he failed to notice a single rose lying on the floor, right in front of Angelique as she prepared to enter the private box.

She was adjusting her apron when she saw the forlorn flower. Kneeling down, she tenderly picked it up and sniffed its rich fragrance, caressing its velvet petals. A soft smile came to her lips as she tucked the stem into her belt before grabbing her bag and entering Box 5.

Placing the bag between the door and its frame, she selected the feather duster and got straight to work, following the routine one of the maids had pointed out to her. As she worked, she couldn't help but remember all that the girls had mentioned about this infamous Phantom of the Opera.

"He killed off Joseph Buquet, the stagehand, just a few nights ago. Carlotta became ill suddenly and Christine Daae – she was a chorus girl before – became the star for that evening," Meg had explained. "Maman says I shouldn't gossip, but really, I'm only telling you these things so you know and it's for your own good."

"Don't forget that your mother works with that terrible ghost!" little Jammes had shuddered as they had went walking down the hall.

"Your mother works for the ghost?" Angelique asked, skeptical. All this talk of a ghost haunting the place didn't sound like a ghost to her…but then, there was that angelic voice that kept tickling her ears when she least expected it…

A boastful, full operatic voice filled the air, but instead of inspiring Angelique, it made her cringe in discontent. "Sweet Lord!" she murmured, hurrying to the balcony to peek down and see what was happening.

Standing on the stage was a rather robust woman with midnight hair piled on her head, her blood-red lips parted as she sung out, straining as hard as she could so her voice would continue onto the farthest reaches of the earth.

"Madame! Please, there's no need to-" Gabriel, the chorus instructor struggled to get her to quiet down a bit, only to have the intimidating woman snap at him.

"I am _singing_! Let me practice, monsieur, as I am certainly not going to miss my show tonight!" she snarled, reminding Angelique of the starving dogs she had seen on her way to Paris, growling as another would enter his territory looking for a morsel.

"_Mon Dieu_, _that's_ singing?!" whispered Angelique with a grimace. Wincing as the woman continued, she began to turn away when a sharp snap and the whirl of a fast-moving item earned her attention. Carlotta screeched in horror, causing the girl to spin around and watch with wide eyes a sandbag suddenly fall from the rafters and nearly smack the diva on the skull. "Oh my-!"

"He's here! It's the Opera Ghost!" the ballet girls squealed in panic, frantically gathering around La Sorelli, the head ballerina of the corps.

"Settle down! Settle down!" Monsieur Gabriel snapped at the girls, though he, too, was shaken. "Are you alright, Madame-?!"

"Do I _look_ alright?! I was nearly plastered to death!" the woman screamed, raining curses on the fool who had dared to try such a stunt on her.

Angelique continued to watch the display before her, her brows furrowing in curiosity. Sandbags didn't just fall on their own, and papers did not materialize out of nowhere…Whatever this Opera Ghost was, she was steadfast in one belief – it was most certainly _not_ a specter. She believed strongly in the idea of Heaven and Hell, of angels and spirits, but this didn't quite settle with her. Turning away, she started polishing the armrests of the seats, softly humming as she left her thoughts wander. Just what could it be if it wasn't a ghost…?

She stopped suddenly, hearing the soothing, hypnotic voice that hummed with her back in the workroom. She didn't move for a full minute, waiting to see what would happen. Would this "ghost" drop something on her as well, or try to kill her as it had with the stagehand, Buquet?

The still silence around her made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up despite her wishes to be brave, and when the voice started humming again without her, she began to wonder what kind of a person she was dealing with. The voice seemed to come from all over the room, echoing and gentle, a whisper from the Heavens that comforted her tired soul. Cautiously, she got back to work, not daring to utter a sound as she listened to the voice hum to her. For ten minutes it continued, as she slowed her work to listen to the angelic sound, despite knowing the danger she was in. At long last, she gathered her belongings together in the bag and letting her eyes dart about.

She could see nothing that would indicate a presence, and though it unnerved her, she couldn't help but feel excited – whoever this person was, he was trying very hard to appear to be a phantom. As she placed her hand over her waist to untie that apron, she received a sweet, soft reminder of the rose she had collected from the floor. Slipping it out of her belt, she sniffed it fragrance once more before placing it on one of the seats and curtsying to it.

"Please accept this, Monsieur Opera Ghost, whoever and wherever you are," she said with a wry smile, slinging the bag over her shoulder and exiting the room.

She walked down the hall, just as the girls had shown her, and finally arrived at the door of the managers' office. Knocking twice on the door, she waited patiently until Monsieur Moncharmin called out, "Come in." As she entered the room, she could see the delight and surprise in his eyes. "Mademoiselle! You're just the person I wanted to see. And before I forget, I must apologize for Firmin's behavior and request." He shook his head at this, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He's desperate to sell that box and very few venture in Box 5 all because of this 'Opera Ghost' that tampers with everything!"

"I understand, Monsieur," she bowed her head. "It was no trouble at all."

"You didn't see or hear anything strange, did you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

"No, of course not," she lied. "Now, where do I leave the cleaning supplies?"

"Oh, those go in the closet by the dressing rooms, it's clearly labeled and not too far from your workroom," he informed her, his face lighting up. "Now come and have a look at this catalog I have. There are several fabrics here that I think you'll find appropriate for the gowns you'll be making."

Joining him by the grand desk, Angelique peered at the pages, taking in the wonderful variety of cloths and applications that could be used, ideas already spilling into her mind. "Oh, Monsieur…these are wonderful!"

"Take the book, my dear girl," he chuckled. "Make your designs first, then select what you'll need. I will order them myself for you."

"Oh thank you!" she beamed, her eyes aglow with excitement. "I shan't let you down!"

"I know you won't-" he began warmly, only to stop when the office door opened and Richard stepped back in.

"Do come in, _mons _- Moncharmin, what's _she_ doing in here?!" Richard fumed, seeing how the cleaning girl had stepped into the office.

"Richard, where are your manners?!" Moncharmin snapped back, embarrassed at his treatment of the humble girl. "She just got back from cleaning Box 5 and is going to start designing the outfits for the shows!"

"You have a new seamstress?" a new voice penetrated the room, startling both Moncharmin and Angelique.

Stepping into the room was a man in his early forties, quite handsome to look at though his grey eyes appeared cold at times. He was clearly an aristocrat and a valuable patron of this opera, smartly dressed and ready for anything the world threw at him. Upon seeing the stunning blue-grey eyes and untamed auburn locks that framed the working girl's face, the man blinked in surprise, his heart suddenly fluttering. He had never felt this way, and never expected to. The child must have been at least half his age, and yet, he couldn't help but feel strongly for her.

"Mademoiselle," he bowed deeply, startling the other three figures. "Pardon my intrusion. Allow me to introduce myself – I am Philippe Georges Marie, Comte de Chagny."

Angelique was stunned to have received such a greeting, and when she began to doubt it as a jest, he took her hand and placed a kiss upon her skin, sending Richard into a frantic frenzy.

"Comte! She's merely a cleaning girl-!"

"Seamstress," Moncharmin glared as he corrected his friend. "_You_ started giving the title and work of a cleaning girl, _mon ami_."

Angelique could feel blush forming on her face, not because she was bashful before this dashing man, rather it was embarrassing to be treated so in front of her bosses. This stranger made her feel slightly uncomfortable until she realized he had said his name was "de Chagny." Perhaps he would know her uncle…

"Please monsieur, this is unnecessary for me," she insisted, tucking her hair behind her ear as she curtsied to him once he was on his feet. "I am simply Angelique Archambault."

His brows furrowed at the name, stroking his moustache as he searched his memory for the source of such similarity. "Archambault…Archambault…wait!" His eyes widened as he snapped his fingers in recognition. "You wouldn't happen to be related to Comte Pierre Archambault, would you?"

"He's my uncle," she nodded with a slight smile. "I've never met him, but my father told me he lived somewhere in Paris."

"Wait a moment, you're related to a Comte?!" Richard squeaked, suddenly feeling guilty for how he was treating her. Moncharmin just smirked at his back.

"He _does_ have an estate here, but I'm afraid he's fallen ill and moved towards the countryside for the time being," he told her, feeling his stomach twist in a knot as he saw her eyes dim. "But I know I have his address – I could write to him and let him know of your presence here in the Opera."

"I couldn't let you do that-" she protested, not wanting to be in debt in anyone.

He held up his hand in a sign for her that he would not stop in his chivalry. "Consider it done. I'll send that letter out before the day is over. You have my word, mademoiselle." He kissed her hand again, making her turn rose pink.

Richard tugged on Moncharmin's coat, hissing suspiciously, "What if she's just making up this whole story?"

"I highly doubt this young lady would ever dare to-"

"Well I think she could be," he snapped. "E-hem! I hate to break this up, but so long as you are in this opera house, you shall work here. Right now, we need someone to take towels to La Carlotta and Mademoiselle Daae."

"Of course," Angelique nodded, eager to get away from the count, no matter how much of a gentleman he was to her. "Please excuse me," she said, taking the catalog from Mocharmin and curtsying to them men. "_Merci_, Monsieur, for your help," she added before scurrying out the door.

Philippe watched her leave, fascinated by her humbleness. May women he had met were either very submissive to a point it was sickening, or they were so haughty that he couldn't stand to be in the same room as them. When he had met the spunky yet classy La Sorelli, he was intrigued by her and came to visit often. But now with Angelique…he began to wonder if she might be the one that was meant for him.


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Angelique hurried past the boxes and halls until she made it backstage, where the wooden rafters and painted props replaced carpeted floors and golden door handles. Her eyes scanned the walls until she saw the two doors explicitly labeled for the two divas. Arriving at the first, she knocked and waited. She could hear that horrid Spanish woman shouting and arguing from within, making Angelique jump at the sound of china smashing.

A middle-aged woman poked her head out from the door, her hair sticking out every which-way under her cap. "What?!" she gasped, clearly out of breath and frustrated.

"The managers sent towels-" she started, nearly jumping back as the woman took the stack in her right hand and shut the door in her face. Memories flooded her mind as she clutched the solitary stack of cloth in her hands, her brows furrowing as she squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

"_Forget it. You're safe now, far away from them."_ Urging herself onward, she took several steps down the hall until she saw the name "Daae" emblazoned on another door. She bit her lip as she heard two voices inside, also heated and rising in anger. Tempted to walk away, she forced herself to stay put. Raising her hand to knock on the door, she found herself tapping her knuckles against a man's chest, covered in fine, expensive clothes. "Oh!" she gasped, stepping away as she realized the gentleman had opened the door so quickly that she was hitting him instead of the wood. "_Pardon, monsieur_!" she exclaimed, curtsying at once.

His look of frustration at the woman in the room changed to one of surprise upon seeing Angelique, a gentle smile appearing on his lips. He was a handsome young man, just a year older than herself, though he had the appearance of a lad of eighteen. He had a fair complexion, beautiful eyes the color of a clear summer's day, and golden blonde hair, with a moustache appearing on his upper lip.

"I beg your pardon, _mademoiselle_. It is _I_ should be apologizing." He tipped his hat to her before looking over his shoulder and sending a glare to the woman inside. "Good day, _Miss Daae_."

"Don't ever see me again, Raoul. Just don't," a strained, quivering voice from within retorted.

With a growl, the young man muttered his apologies to Angelique before stalking past her and down the hall. She raised an eyebrow at this before tentatively stepping into the diva's room. "_Mademoiselle_?"

"What is it?" Sitting at the far left corner of the lavender room was a beautiful girl at an elegant vanity. She was a vision, an angel on earth with cascading curls that fell over her shoulders and shone like the sun, while her eyes appeared to be drops of the ocean, changing from jade to cerulean in the light of the candelabras. Her skin was soft and pale, her lips painted by an artist – full and pink, curved with perfection, while her lashes fluttered upon the tops of her cheeks. She couldn't have been any older than Angelique, but there was something about her spirit and being that gave her the look of a fifteen year old child.

After taking her in, Angelique noticed how the girl's eyes shone with tears, her bottom lip quaking as she struggled not to cry. "_Mon Dieu_, what's wrong?!" Angelique declared, setting the towels down and rushing to her side. She couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor girl, wanting to wrap her arms around her and reassure her that all would be well.

"I can't…I just _can't_!" she wept, covering her face as she sobbed into her hands.

Without a second thought, Angelique placed her arms around her and embraced the poor girl, letting her cry on her dress. "There, there, it can't be that bad…"

"But it is," she sniffled, struggling to clean her face. Angelique grabbed the kerchief off the vanity and handed it to the girl, allowing her a few moments to recollect herself. "Thank you…oh, look at me," she sighed, wiping her tears away. "I'm so sorry…" Raising her eyes, she finally got a good look at the young woman, her eyes narrowing just a smidge as she struggled to place the new face. "I'm sorry, I don't believe I've ever seen you before."

"You couldn't have. I only just arrived here last night," Angelique shook her head with a smile, her tangled locks gently moving against her neck with the slight motion of her head. "My name is Angelique, I'm the new seamstress."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening as she heard the news. "Oh, _you're_ the new seamstress! I heard about you from little Jammes and Meg Giry." Her face seemed to brighten as a smile graced her face. "I couldn't help myself – I stopped by the workroom earlier and saw that dress you made. How did you manage?! It's absolutely stunning!"

"You're too kind," she blushed, a delighted smile on her face. "Thank you, Miss Daae-"

"Christine, please," she insisted, taking the girl's hand in her own. "I'm so happy you could join the _Opera Garnier_. God has blessed your hands, _cherie_."

"And your voice, from what I've heard," Angelique added. "I would very much like to hear you at a performance."

"I'm performing _Faust_ tonight, actually," Christine informed her, the light from her eyes dimming a bit. "I'll be in the background tonight, La Carlotta is Margarita."

"How unfortunate," grimaced Angelique. "I heard her earlier today…her performance was very…loud."

Christine could not suppress a giggle, causing Angelique to join her. "Oh, I'm horrid!" Christine shook her head, though she couldn't stop herself.

"Not at all," she disagreed. "I'd like to see you perform the role, though."

"You are not the only one," Christine murmured, her eyes darting about as she took in the room.

Angelique frowned at her reaction but said nothing. "I take it you and the young gentleman are courting-?"

"Heavens, no!" Christine gasped, shaking her head violently.

Startled, Angelique blinked at her before making a face of confusion. "Sorry…my mistake."

"Oh dear, if only, if only!" Christine moaned.

"What is it?" Angelique insisted, falling to her knees and looking up at the girl. "Christine, if there is anything I can do to help-"

"Unless you can convince angels to change their minds, there is nothing you can do," Christine answered softly, shaking her head.

"Angels? What do angels have to do with anything?" asked the seamstress, extremely perplexed by the dilemma.

Looking into Angelique's eyes, Christine gripped her hands and whispered, "You _do_ believe in angels, don't you?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"If I tell you, you won't think I'm mad?"

"No, of course not. Christine, what is all this-?"

Without another word, Christine leapt onto her feet and ran to the door, shutting it and snapping the lock into place before motioning for Angelique to join her on the settee. "Please, sit here," she pleaded, patting the empty spot beside her. The girl obeyed the singer, waiting for an explanation. "I really shouldn't tell you, Angelique, but I do so desperately need to talk to someone or I shall go utterly mad!" When the seamstress said nothing, looking at her with patient, quiet eyes, Christine took a breath and finally began to speak. "My father was the one who first taught me how to sing, but he became ill some time ago. Before he died, he promised he would send me the Angel of Music to watch over me…and he did! I was only here a few months before my Angel found me. He gives me lessons, Angelique, and that is how my singing has improved. I love him so dearly, I want him to be with me always, but…"

"But you cannot see the young man," Angelique surmised, suspicious about this angel that Christine mentioned.

"Yes," Christine nodded. "His name is Raoul, he's the Vicomte de Chagny."

"The Vicomte?!" gaped Angelique. _"It appears both brothers are interested in the opera…"_

"_Oui_," Christine nodded. "He and I were childhood friends…He's in love with me." Her face became a lovely shade of pink, nearly turning red.

"Don't you love him back?" asked Angelique.

"I cannot," she shook her head stubbornly. "I don't want my Angel to go away to Heaven and leave me here alone."

"I see," muttered the seamstress. "So you turn the Vicomte away for the Angel."

"Yes! You understand, don't you? He's a link to my father. Raoul is a dear friend, but I cannot abandon my Angel!"

"…how do you love your angel, Christine?"

She blinked, stunned by the question. "_Pardon_?"

"How do you love him?" she repeated. "As a friend? Guardian? Father-figure? Lover-?"

"Heavens, no, not like that," she shook her head, her face rather red. "No…he's my world. He's everything…but I cannot love him like…_that_." She let her hair cover her face, clearly embarrassed. "It's forbidden for humans and angels to be in love, you know."

"Yes, I know," Angelique nodded. "Well…whatever you decide, I shall be there for you."

Christine raised her eyes, a grateful smile on her lips as she saw genuine concern and care in Angelique's grey-blue eyes. "Oh, thank you! Thank you, Angelique! I knew you'd understand me." She embraced her tightly, kissing her cheek. "You're a darling!"

"Hardly," Angelique chuckled, shaking her head as she hugged her back. "Everything will turn out all right, Christine, you'll see." Patting her friend's hands, she got up and made her way for the door. "I must go – you need to prepare and I need to get back to work."

"Come and watch the performance from the wings, won't you? Where the ballerinas wait for their cues!" Christine pleaded, earning a grin from the girl.

"I shall – I promise!" Shutting the door behind her, Angelique walked away from the room, her brows furrowing as she remembered what Christine had told her. _"Something's not right…why would the 'Angel' deny Christine happiness with someone who clearly loves her?"_ Walking through the halls and passages, Angelique glanced around and listened carefully, a theory floating in her mind. _"Could this 'Angel' and the Opera Ghost be one in the same?"_

**~OG~**

"Mademoiselle!" Jammes hissed as she poked her head through the doorway of the room. "Do hurry! Christine Daae will be singing soon!"

Angelique looked up from her work, exhausted from taking inventory and starting on new designs since she came back from seeing Christine. She had eaten a meager supper quickly and gotten to work at once, excited to get busy, her mind still spinning with the thought of ghosts and angels. Jammes's reminder of the show made her jump, realizing that she had most likely missed the first part of the show. "I'm coming," she said, flexing her fingers and stretching her arms before twisting her hair into a bun and rushing out after the ballerina. "Which way?"

"Hurry!" Jammes squealed, scampering off. Leading the young woman, she skidded to a halt and grabbed Angelique's hand, tugging her through the maze of people working backstage until they arrived at last at the _corps de ballet_.

"Mademoiselle, you made it!" Meg smiled, though it did not reach her eyes.

"Meg, have you seen your mother? I just wanted to let her know how everything's been going since we last spoke," Angelique asked, concern bubbling within her breast the moment Meg gave her a miserable look.

"Maman's been…released from her services," Meg informed her quietly. "The managers didn't want her because she worked for the…Phantom."

Angelique's jaw dropped at this, a mixture of worry, anger, and sympathy filling her. After everything that woman did for her, how could she not feel sorry? "Oh, Meg!"

"Jammes, where did you-?" a tall, slender, dark-haired woman asked, raising an eyebrow at Angelique. "Who is this?"

"Angelique, the seamstress," Jammes stated proudly.

"This is not a place for the others to join and watch-"

"Sorelli, Mademoiselle Daae asked her to come and watch here!" Meg Giry piped up.

"It's all right, girls," Angelique shushed them. "I'll find another place-"

"**Co-ack**!"

Everything seemed to pause, as if frozen from the shock of hearing such a prominent, defining sound that unnaturally came out of the _prima donna's_ mouth. The ballerinas' attention now on the stage, Angelique peered out at La Carlotta and gaped in amazement.

"W-well, go on!" Richard's voice was heard as he shouted from Box Five.

Taking a deep breath, Carlotta trembled as she tried once more, the audience at the edge of their seats, anxiously awaiting the next note.

"_I feel without alarm – __**co-ack**__!_

_With its melody enwind me – __**co-ack**__!_

_And all my heart sub – __**co-ack**__!"_

The house was in an uproar at this, whispering, gasping, pointing, crying out. Angelique was torn between wanting to gasp in shock and laugh in disbelief – how was this possible?! Suddenly, a voice filled the air that sent shivers down her spine.

"_Behold_! She is singing tonight to bring down _**the chandelier**_!"

Her eyes darted towards the ceiling, widening as they saw the massive, beautiful chandelier hanging over the audience now dangling precariously. "_Mon Dieu_, look!" she pointed. The sparkling structure was released from its hold, free falling down towards the people below. Screams filled the air as it collapsed, a resounding crash shaking the building as the people leapt from their seats and ran for their lives.

"_Sacre bleu_!" La Sorelli screamed, her hand going to her mouth instantly.

"The Opera Ghost!" the chorus girls and ballerinas screeched.

On stage, the lights flickered for a mere instant. La Carlotta collapsed onto the floor in a dead faint, and the actors remaining on stage gasped and cried out as they realized something was terribly wrong.

"Miss Daae?! Where's Miss Daae?!" she heard someone shout.

"She's gone!" another shouted. "She's disappeared!"

Turning on her heel, Angelique ran out of the wing, shoving past the frantic girls and shouting stagehands until she arrived backstage, her eyes scanning the area as best as she could. "Christine? Christine!" she shouted, moving towards the dressing rooms. Gathering her skirts into her fists, she ran as quickly as she could, praying that the singer could be found in her dressing room. Christine's words drifted through her mind once more, the Opera Ghost and Angel of Music suddenly meshing together. _"Could it be they're one in the same…?"_

Reaching for the door, she frowned as she noticed that the door was cracked open. "Christine?" she called out, placing her palm against the wood and pushing it open. Stepping into the room, she found two figures searching frantically in the singer's quarters. "Comte and Vicomte de Chagny?!"

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry for the wait, but I do hope you enjoyed this chapter! I promise Erik will be appearing soon (I'm hoping by the next chapter we'll actually be seeing him). Please let me know what you thought and thanks for your continued support! I own nothing except the OC (characters and quotes/excerpts from the book belong to Leroux). See you next time!


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Angelique watch the men spin around to face her, their eyes enlarging upon seeing her at the door.

"Mademoiselle Archambault!" Philippe exclaimed, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a smile.

"Mademoiselle! Tell me you've seen her! I beg of you, please tell me you know where Christine is!" Raoul de Chagny begged, lunging for her and grasping her arms.

"I would if I knew, _Monsieur_. Please unhand me," she said calmly, watching his face as he realized what he had done and immediately released her.

"Forgive me," he said, his face flushed bright red. "But I am extremely anxious to know of her whereabouts."

"She was nothing but trouble, Raoul, I warned you!" Philippe scolded him, his brows furrowed in frustration. "That girl-!"

"That girl is my friend, and I intend to find out just what happened," Angelique interrupted, sending him a cold look.

"But the police-" Raoul began.

"At this moment, I doubt the police will be looking for Christine Daae, monsieur. That chandelier has most likely killed someone-"

"The concierge," Philippe informed them. "He was supposed to have replaced Madame Giry, but the chandelier hit him and he died instantly, according to the managers."

"_That poor man, and poor Madame!"_ Angelique thought, placing her hand upon her cheek as she struggled to think. _"Where could Christine have be taken to? This Opera Ghost_ must _be the culprit, therefore I must find him. But where can one find a phantom…?"_

"_Stay away from any trapdoors you may find,"_ Meg Giry's voice echoed in her mind.

The idea struck her so suddenly that she almost exclaimed a cry of delight, but she held her tongue, glancing at the two men as they bantered on what to do next. The last thing she needed was someone hovering over her shoulder or telling her what to do.

"I'm going to find the police," Raoul said stubbornly, his blue eyes hard and cold as he glared at his brother. "I _shall_ find Christine!"

Both Philippe and Angelique watched him storm out of the dressing room, silent and pensive. "I'm sorry for my brother's behavior," the elder said politely, turning to the seamstress. "And I'm sorry if I offended you."

"Of course not," she answered lightly, ready to leave and search as soon as possible. "Do excuse me, I shouldn't be here anyways."

"_Mademoiselle_, won't you come back with us?" he said suddenly, startling her so much that she looked over her shoulder to stare at him.

"_Pardon_?" she asked, one eyebrow arched at him.

Holding his hands up in defense, he looked her in the eye and explained, "Do not misunderstand me, Mademoiselle Archambault. I realize it must be difficult to be in your situation, and now with this madness, the opera house is not a safe place to be. Raoul and I live not too far from here, and we have several spare rooms. I've already sent a letter to your uncle, mademoiselle, and I should feel rather guilty to not at least offer you a home until we get a response from him."

She blinked, stunned by his answer. Biting her bottom lip, she turned to face him and bowed her head. "I thank you for your generosity, _Monsieur le Comte_, but I must refuse. I could not take advantage of your kindness-"

"But you wouldn't!" he insisted, stopping himself as he realized he was beginning to sound as impulsive as his little brother. "Please, Miss Angelique-"

"I have been in worse situations than this, Comte de Chagny, I can assure you," she said with a smile though her eyes were grim. "I have survived, and I will not be intimidated by some 'ghost'. Thank you, though, for your concern." Curtsying, she turned and stepped out of the room, quickening her step as she made her way for the halls once more.

"_Mademoiselle_, wait! Please-!" Philippe cried, stretching his arm after her as he exited the room and started to chase her.

"Philippe!"

He stopped in his tracks as the new voice assaulted him, turning his head to the left to see La Sorelli running towards him. She was still dressed in her scarlet ballet gown, her hair curled and placed atop her head so that the ringlets surrounded her frightened face. "Oh, Philippe! Thank goodness I found you! Did you find anything out?"

"No," he shook his head, gentlemanly offering his arm to her, which she instantly accepted and curled at his side. "No, nothing yet…" His eyes drifted towards the direction in which Angelique had vanished, his stomach twisting in a knot. "But I'm sure I shall soon."

**~OG~**

With a spool of thick thread from the workroom and a lit candle in her hands, Angelique stepped cautiously into the darkness of the back of the theater. She could make out a faint scent of horses and manure, signaling that she was close to the stalls. While it would have been easier to find a trapdoor at the front of the theater where the stage was located, it was swarming with police and onlookers – she wanted to be alone. Coming upon a wall lined with dimly lit torches, she inspected the area, her fingers caressing the walls' surface.

Suddenly, her fingers felt the slight, unnatural crack that could be associated with a door. It was nearly seamless, but there it was, even more inconspicuous in the shadows. These halls were barely used or visited, cobwebs forming in the corners of the corridors. Her brows knit together as she brought the candle, placed firmly in its rusted holder, up to the wall, allowing her to inspect any marks and bumps that might appear. Releasing a sigh, she raised her arm and grasped the torch placed in the wall, hoping to strengthen its light by placing her candle on its stem. It jerked suddenly with her weight, causing her to jump back in surprise, a squeak escaping her lips despite her efforts to remain calm. As the torch dropped, a door slid open before her, showing the entrance to a dark labyrinth within the massive building.

"…well, let's get a move on," she whispered to herself, stepping into the doorway. Setting the candle down, she took a moment and swiftly tied the beginning of the thread onto the torch's handle before entering once more, the spool tactfully held in one hand whilst the candle was held aloft in the other. She had made it in just a few steps when the secret door shut on her, encasing her in darkness. She remained perfectly still, with only the light of the candle illuminating the passageway. Inhaling silently, she held her breath and moved onward, her eyes scanning the perimeter constantly, her ears alert to any and every sound.

For what felt like eons, she moved on, always allowing the thread to unfurl, the candlelight gently lighting the way for her. Several times she stopped, hearing rats scurry by or water drip onto the cobblestone floors, half expecting something to jump out at her. _"Get a hold of yourself,"_ she scolded herself, as she reached a set of winding stairs. She hadn't seen hide nor hair of anyone in the passages, which she now assumed to be catacombs from the distinct smell that the halls and stones gave off. _"I just hope I don't get lost-"_

No sooner had she stepped off the stairway and into the new passage, a looming figure appeared to pop out of the shadows. A scream escaped her as she jumped back, dropping the thread in her fright as a hand reached out and covered her mouth. Twisting her body, she began to fight back when the stranger held up his torch and stepped towards her, showing his swarthy face.

"Shh!" His eyes darted to and fro, listening for any sound other than the dying echo of her scream. Satisfied, he removed his hand from her face and knelt down, grasping the spool with his long fingers. "I apologize for frightening you," he said humbly, his voice tinted with a thick, Persian accent. He stood once again, offering her the thread when she did not move. "However, you should not be here, _mademoiselle_. It is quite dangerous."

She remain silent and still, accepting the spool from him while taking in his countenance. She had only seen him once before – early that evening, just before the show started, she found him wandering behind the stage, tall and imposing in his foreign apparel. He had a dark complexion, narrow jade eyes, and a short black beard growing from his chin, the look completed with an astrakhan cap upon his head. "You… you're the one they call 'The Persian', aren't you?"

A small smile grew on his lips as he bowed to her. "I am he, however, you may call me 'Daroga', Mademoiselle Archambault."

She gaped at him, shyly tucking her hair out of her face. "How did you-?"

"You are the subject of the ballerinas' chatter lately, I'm afraid," he chuckled. "And it is difficult to ignore them, especially when in a cluster. They greatly admire your work and are extremely curious about you."

"Oh," she said quietly. Pursing her lips in thought, she asked, "_Monsieur_, you tell me it is not safe here, and yet, you are also wandering the catacombs… why?"

"The same reason you have – to find Christine Daae." He held up his hand when she opened her mouth, motioning for her to wait. "Walk with me, _mademoiselle_, and I shall explain. However, you shall have to leave either your thread or candle behind. It is important when down here that you keep your hand at the level of your eyes, lest you wish to lose your life."

She frowned at this, unable to comprehend what he meant. However, she _was_ extremely curious, so she blew out her candle and set it on the floor, abandoning it as she joined the man's side and continued to unwind the thread, the torch now their only source of light.

"I was the head of police in my country, thus the title 'Daroga' was given to me," he explained. "It was there that I first met Erik."

"Erik?" she repeated, the name sending shivers down her spine.

"He is the Opera Ghost," Daroga informed her. "He is a genius, Miss. He is a ventriloquist, a singer, a musician, an architect, a composer, a magician, an artist, an assassin… he can accomplish just about anything he sets his mind to… unfortunately, he is hideously deformed."

"Deformed?" she echoed. "How?"

"His entire being, but mostly his face," the man answered with a stern face. He continued to guide her, already very familiar with some of the underground passages. "He looks like Death himself… those that see his face want to forget it, and many have died after seeing it."

She said nothing, absorbing all that he said, her imagination spinning with ideas and the words the Persian now spoke. "How did you meet him?"

"He has traveled all over the world. For a time, he stopped in Persia and worked for the Shah and his daughter, the little Sultana. Once he outlived his usefulness, however, the Shah ordered me to kill him."

"But you didn't," she cut in.

He shook his head. "No… we had a mutual understanding…I had seen his face before and accepted him nonetheless. We had done small favors for one another, and when I was told he was to be executed, I simply could not do it. So I helped him escape, and for a time, all was quiet until I was allowed to retire and given my pension… and then I heard about strange happenings here in the opera. I came to investigate and knew at once that it was Erik who was up to no good. It is the new managers that are giving him so much trouble that he feels the need to strike out in such an alarming manner. Also, he is infatuated with Miss Daae. He is her instructor."

"The Angel of Music," she whispered, making the connection at once.

"Yes. Now he has taken her, and I fear that it will be their undoing. That is why it is not safe for you to be here. If he should find us wandering these corridors, he may not be so merciful. He has a lasso and can strike with deadly precision. It would be too late when you finally notice that you are in his clutches."

"How did you know I was looking for Christine and not the Phantom?" she asked, avoiding a large puddle as she allowed him to guide her even deeper into the catacombs, the air becoming cooler as they moved onward.

"I heard you and Miss Daae speaking in her dressing room this afternoon," he confessed. "I was looking for Erik and happened to pass by. Again, I apologize."

"Well, I'm just grateful it was _you_ who found me, Monsieur Daroga," she smiled.

He smiled back before looking up, stopping in his tracks. "Look."

She followed his gaze, her eyes widening at the sight of a handsome white horse tethered to a post as a torch placed into the wall lit up the area, showing them that he was chewing on a mouthful of hay. A bucket of water and a pile of hay lay on the floor for the magnificent animal, and he blinked calmly at them as they approached.

"It appears Erik is the culprit of the missing _Profeta_ horse," the Persian noted.

Angelique reached out and caressed the creature's face, letting the horse sniff her. "Why would he take a horse?"

"Most likely to assist him in bringing down Mademoiselle Daae," Daroga answered, motioning for her to follow. "Come…and remember, keep your hand by your eyes."

She did as she was told, even if she felt it looked a bit ridiculous, and walked down the path until she saw a vast expanse of water before them. "A lake…!"

"On the other side is Erik's home," the Persian informed her. "Please, Miss, stay close." His eyes rested on a lone boat tied to the steps. "If we are to find Miss Daae, we must hurry. Erik cannot see us-"

"I'm afraid, Daroga, it is too late."

The sound of the menacing, velvet-like voice seemed to swirl around them, like the mist rolling off of the murky waters. Angelique felt her body stiffen as she heard the voice, wanting to step closer to the Persian, and yet, not daring to make a move for fear that the Phantom would attack.

"Erik," said the Daroga, slowly turning around and looking for the man. "We have come for Miss Daae – you must release her!"

"I beg to differ," sneered the voice, a shadow sneaking up behind the other man.

"_Monsieur_, look out!" cried Angelique, dropping the thread once more that evening as she pointed at the oncoming figure.

The Persian spun around quickly, raising his arms as his opponent attacked. He grunted as they struggled, planting his feet firmly to the ground. "You cannot keep her here!"

"You cannot tell me what to do!" the masked figure snapped back.

Angelique watched in awe as the two men battled – one from the East, the other a man of darkness and shades, his head and body covered with a midnight cloak, an expressionless mask covering the face, with two slots for the eyes. She gasped as she noted how brilliantly his eyes glowed, appearing to be golden coals set in dark, black sockets. As the men continued to fight, her eyes were instantly drawn to the edge of the steps that led to the boat and water. If they continued to struggle with one another, surely they would fall in and get injured, possibly even drown!

"Stop!" she cried out, running to them. With her arms outstretched, she gave a mighty shove at the two, stunning them long enough to pause and see what had caused her to do so. No sooner had she roughly shoved them, her ankle gave out from under her, sending her off balance and tripping. With a scream, she felt herself slip off of the edge and plunge into the icy waters, sinking with each passing second.

* * *

**A/N:** I own nothing except Angelique and any OCs that may pop up. I hope you enjoyed this chapter - please let me know what you thought of it! If you're interested in an accurate 2D movie of the book, please support "The Phantom of the Opera Animated Stage II Script" on Kickstarter! Thanks again, everyone - see you next time!


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

Angelique screamed – at least, she tried to. She had never learned how to swim, but that didn't stop her from trying. Flailing her arms and kicking her legs, she fought to get back to the surface, though her lungs and nostrils burned and were filled with the terribly cold water. _"Don't stop – keep moving!"_ she told herself, desperate for air. She had not made it this far only to drown in an underground lake – she wouldn't allow it.

A long, thin arm slithered around her, pulling her close to a torso. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened once more as another scream escaped her, filling her with even more water than before. Struggling, she felt her elbow jab something smooth and hard before the figure gave her a violent tug, signaling for her to stop. It was a futile suggestion, however, as she soon began to fade away, her head bowing as she lost consciousness…

"_Mon Dieu_! Erik, is she-?!"

"She's alive…_merde_! Where is it?!"

"What?"

"My mask, you fool! Where is…oh no."

"What?!"

"She hit Erik's face underwater…it must have slipped off when Erik brought her up!"

"Erik-!"

"No, don't let her see me-!"

Her eyelids fluttered open whilst they spoke, her mind in a tizzy as she struggled to make sense and spew water out of her lungs. Her insides burned and her body shivered, her hair plastered to her face and neck as it dripped excess fluids. "Ugh…" Blurry-eyed and disoriented, Angelique squinted in the torchlight, her eyes falling on a hooded figure. It was only for a moment – a second, really – but she saw it. Their eyes locked, and she could see everything. Her eyes widened as her mouth opened in fear, her hand clamping over her lips as so to contain the screech she wanted to release. Instead, a strangled gasp left her mouth as she scooted away, seeing the terrible Death Head that the girls had gossiped so much about.

His face was shadowed well by the hood of his cloak, which only served to make it appear even more terrifying. His skin was a yellowish hue, thin as parchment, and his lips were practically translucent, the outline his teeth visible even with his mouth closed. There was no nose – just a hole at the center of his face. The eyebrows were nonexistent, and there was a lose tendril of thinning black hair that fell in between his eyes…those eyes that burned, golden and red all at once, placed deep into two black sockets.

The moment she saw him, he reeled back, a cry of despair filling the air and echoing all around them. "No!" he wailed, covering his face in agony. "No, not again!"

"Erik, stop," the Daroga pleaded before reaching out to Angelique, who sat on the floor, frozen in shock. "Please, _mademoiselle_, remember what I told you-"

"So, you've been gossiping about me?!" Erik snapped, jumping to his feet and taking a menacing step towards the man. "Just what did you tell her, hmm?"

"Leave her be, it was an accident!" the Persian fought back, reaching for the Phantom.

He shoved the other aside, snarling as he stalked over to the girl and knelt down, grabbing her by her hair and pulling his cloak off before he picked up the fallen torch. "Well, have a good, long look, _mademoiselle_, for it will be the last thing you see!" he growled, holding the light up so that she could see his hideousness. She bit her lip, not wanting to cry out in front of him as he forcefully pulled her head by her hair so that she could stare at him. "Feast your eyes, glut your soul on my accursed ugliness!" he roared, sneering at her cruelly as he held her head up. "Those who see Erik's face must stay with Erik or _die_! It is your choice, Mademoiselle Archambault. Shall I throw you back into the lake, or would you like to spend the rest of your life with a corpse?"

Her body shook from fear and the cold, her scalp aching as he held her up, but she did not dare look away from his face. She was accustomed to such abuse, and she knew that it would be unwise to look away, no matter how frightened and tired she felt, or how horrifying the face was. "M-Miss Daae-"

"What?" he asked, his brows furrowing at her choice of words. "Speak up, girl!"

"Release her, or I shall shoot!" the Persian demanded, pulling a pistol from his coat.

Erik laughed at him contemptuously and grinned wickedly. "Oh yes, Daroga, please do. But you'll be killing _her_ as well." He released Angelique's hair only to slither his arm around her and hold her against his frame, standing up with her acting as his shield against the enemy. "Now, my dear, what was it you were saying just a moment ago?"

"Ch-Christine Daae," she coughed, leaning against him despite herself. She was still weak from nearly drowning, and having him hold her up appropriate was an improvement from nearly getting her scalp yanked off. "Y-You didn't hurt her…did you?"

"Hurt her, no. Erik would never harm Christine," his voice lowering just a bit, tenderness seeping into his tone. "You came here searching for her and now you are in rather hot water, my dear. Make your choice – you can die, or stay here, forever Erik's prisoner."

She shivered in his arms, the cold air biting into her skin while his voice tickled her ears. Cautiously, she turned her head, her eyes daring to move back towards his face. She felt her stomach twist as she saw him once more, his eyes still glowing in the torchlight. He stared at her for a moment, surprised that she even attempted to look at him, before frowning and nearing her face, making her squirm. "I'm waiting…"

"Erik, you cannot keep her!" the Daroga fought on, his eyes narrowing as he aimed the gun for Erik's head.

"Any woman who looks at Erik's face belongs to him!" he retorted. "You know the rules very well, Daroga! Either she can meet my lasso or-"

"I'll go," she said, her voice rough as she coughed again.

His head whipped back as he stared down at her. "What?"

"I'll go with you…but please, _monsieur_, don't hurt him," she pleaded, her eyes moving towards the Persian.

"Oh, how I should like to," the Opera Ghost glared at the opponent. "Rest assured, _mademoiselle_, no harm shall come to the dear Daroga if he takes his leave now."

"Mademoiselle Archambault-!" Daroga began.

"No, _monsieur_, please go. I'll be alright," she reassured him, allowing Erik to guide her to the rowboat. "Please, just go!"

The Persian remained still, finally lowering his arm as he watched Erik step into the little boat and offer his hand to the girl. "If any harm befalls either woman, Erik, I _shall_ hunt you down."

"I would not have it any other way, old friend," he answered tartly, waving his hand at him. "Now if you do not mind, Erik has important matters to attend to. _Au revoir_." Ignoring him now, he turned back to face the girl, who remained still and silent, standing patiently on the steps, waiting for him. With his feet firmly placed inside the boat, he pulled his hood up once more, suddenly aware that she was looking at him and not avoiding his gaze, as most people did once they saw him. He offered her his hands for support, half expecting her to cringe or jump into the lake once again. His eyes widened for an instant, however, as she reached out, her trembling fingers uncurling slowly, and placed her hands in his, gripping him tightly as she hopped inside, wobbling once on board.

"Sit down," he ordered her, his voice still commanding yet gentler in tone.

She gratefully followed his instructions, glancing behind one last time to see the Persian still standing several yards away. Casting him a weak smile, she waved at him before facing forward, setting her sights on the massive structure that loomed on the other side of the lake.

Grabbing the oars, Erik began to row, glaring back at the passage. The Daroga had vanished from sight, but he was certain he would be back soon. Facing forward again, he kept his face hidden as best as he could, eager to get back and cover it with another mask. His eyes drifted back to his hostage, however, and he instantly took in every detail about her as she turned back. Facing him, she bowed her head and hugged her knees, shivering from the cold. He could hear her teeth chattering, causing him to reach for his cloak when he stopped. A frown grew on his lips as he remembered that it was she who made him lose his mask. Stubborn, he bit his tongue and hissed, refusing to give up the only cover he had for his face. "Just a bit more, Miss Archambault."

She raised her eyes at him before glancing at the dark waters that surrounded them. "…you've been watching me, _monsieur_."

He continued to row, his eyes moving back to her. "_Oui_. I make it a point to know all that happens in my opera house." He paused a moment, watching her eyes move back onto him. "…such as receiving a rose in my private box."

A gasp left her mouth as she remembered the events of that very afternoon, her body stiffening at the mention of the flower. She hadn't thought it was real at the time…she didn't know what to expect…now she knew, she knew all too well…he was very real, and he had been watching her since she entered the theater. "…oh," she said softly. "…I didn't mean to offend-"

"You didn't," he cut her off, looking away at once. "It was very thoughtful of you to leave it for Erik."

She raised her eyebrow at this, curiosity filling her. "…_pardon, monsieur_, but you call yourself in the third person."

"Yes, and?" he asked coldly, still looking away from her.

She blinked at him, shaking her head. "Never mind."

They continued on in silence, the only sounds filling the air being the gentle lap of the water and the constant sloshing of the oars. Striving to sit up straight, Angelique held her head up but continued to hug herself in an effort to stay warm. She could see from the corner of her eye that Erik pushed himself to get to the other side as quickly as possible. _"He's so tall and thin…and yet, he's so strong. He was giving the Persian a difficult time when they were fighting…and when he rescued…"_ The sudden realization hit her hard, causing her to reach up and touch her cheek. "Oh…"

"Is there a problem?" he asked coolly.

"Thank you."

His eyes darted back to her, one eyebrow raising in shock. "_Pardon_?"

"Thank you, monsieur, for saving me," she said a little louder, her eyes moving back to him.

His cloaked head swiveled away as he felt her stormy-hued eyes lay upon his being, his fingers gripping the handles so tightly that his knuckles when white. "You cannot swim, I presume?"

She shook her head, her tangled locks falling over her face.

"…you're welcome." He felt his eyes widen as she gave a small smile, tucking her hair away from her face. Frowning, he glared at her. "Do you not comprehend your situation? You are to be Erik's prisoner for all time! You have seen my face, child. It is not a memory that anyone wishes to look upon fondly."

"Perhaps not," she shrugged, rubbing her arms. "But as I cannot change the situation, I shall have to make the most of it."

The oars paused in midair as he gaped at her, causing her to stare back in confusion.

"…have I said something wrong?" she asked calmly.

He blinked once more at her, shook his head, and continued to row. "You are a most perplexing young woman, _mademoiselle_."

"_Merci_," she answered back, a hint of sarcasm dripping from her voice.

Within a few moments, the boat bumped against the small dock formed just outside of the house on the other side of the lake. Setting the instruments down, Erik rose to his feet and gracefully stepped out, adjusting the cloak around his face once more before turning back and offering his hand to his new guest. "My apologies, _mademoiselle_. Erik was not expecting company other than Miss Daae, therefore Erik did not bring gloves."

"Gloves? Whatever for?" she asked, standing precariously in the dinghy.

"So that you may not have to touch Erik," he said coldly, his rich voice lowering an octave as self-loathing washed over him. The feel of a small, slightly roughened hand startled him as its fingers curled around his own, their warmth unfamiliar and yet welcoming.

"As far as I am concerned, _monsieur_, there is no need for gloves between us," she answered honestly, gripping onto him once again as she stepped out and onto solid ground once more.

He slipped his hand out of hers at once, not wanting to push his luck, and motioned for her to follow after him. "This way."

Tentatively, she traced his steps, entering the house after him. Her eyes widened at the sight of a beautiful parlor, covered in expensive rugs and set with the finest settees and chairs, vases of glorious flowers placed all over the room. "Heavens," she whispered, gazing at the beautifully delicate gas lamps that lit the room. "It's beautiful…!"

"_Merci_," he said gruffly, moving towards another door. "Erik strives to create perfection in all he creates."

"This is the most wonderful room I've ever seen," she said softly, remaining where she stood. The room truly was perfect…so perfect that she didn't want to destroy it. She was still sopping wet, and she was petrified to even touch anything for fear that it might break.

"Your room is just down the hall," he informed her, stepping into a different room, vanishing for a moment, and emerging once again with a new mask covering his face.

"M-My room?" she asked, stunned by the news.

"Where did you think you would be staying?" he asked curtly, leading the way. "Come."

Timidly, she trailed after him, remaining a few steps away from him as he moved swiftly down the halls of his home. Turning to his right, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. "You will stay here, Miss Archambault," he informed her, motioning with his hand for her to enter.

Cautiously, she stepped inside, her jaw dropping at the beautiful décor. Candelabra lit the room, a polished Louis Philippe wardrobe sitting comfortably in the corner while a vanity rested across the room from it. The bed was massive and lush, coated in satin and linen. The carpet was a royal shade of wine, the walls a simple hue of crème. "This can't be…" she murmured.

"If it is not to your liking, you may ask Miss Daae to switch with you," he growled, only to be stunned by the sparkle in her eyes.

"_Non, monsieur_, I mean that I can't possibly stay in such a fine room," she shook her head. "I'm a seamstress, not a princess. This room is simply wonderful!"

Unaccustomed to compliments, he took a few moments to absorb what she had said before clearing his throat and straightening his posture. "It is yours, mademoiselle. Erik is very glad you have taken a liking to it. There is a washroom that is meant only for this room that is available through that door…now, I must ask you a favor."

"A favor?" she asked, facing him completely now.

"Yes…Erik is…concerned," he said, nearly stammering as he linked his hands together.

"Concerned?"

"Christine has seen Erik's face, and she…well, she has accepted her fate, but Erik still worries for her," he confessed, fidgeting with the clasp of the cloak. "It would be good for her to have a companion. Erik is certain she is frightened. As you are…taking things rather well, would you visit Christine and speak with her?"

"I'll certainly try, if she lets me in, that is," she nodded.

"Thank you," he said, nodding back to her. "Her room is this way." Guiding her back down the hall to one of the first rooms, he knocked on the door and waited. "Christine?" he called out to her, his voice filled with pleading and tenderness. "Christine, you have a visitor."

Angelique listened, hearing subdued crying from within the room. The sound of slow, hesitant footsteps became clearer as they neared the door, the thick plank of wood creaking open before them.

"Who…is it?" sniffled the poor girl, her sea-colored eyes filled with salty tears. Her eyes rested on Angelique's form, her face lighting up. "Oh! Angelique?! Is that really you?!"

"Hello, Christine," Angelique smiled kindly. "May I come in?" She glanced over at Erik, who began to walk away at once, leaving them alone.

"Angelique!" exclaimed the singer, dragging her into the room and locking the door at once. Falling to her knees, she wept, gripping onto the newcomer's dress. "Oh, Angelique, it's just awful! I'm trapped here! I shall never be able to go out again!"

"Christine," the seamstress cooed comfortingly, placing her hands on the girl's shoulders and gently forcing her up. "Come, Christine, let's go to the bed." Assisting the blonde woman, she brought her to the bedside and began to sit when she realized she was still soaked. "I'll just stand," she said, doing so before Christine.

"What in Heaven's name happened to you?!" Christine asked, finally taking in the form of the bedraggled young woman.

"I came after you to try and figure out where you disappeared to, and I found myself in the cellars of the _Garnier_," Angelique explained. "I met up with a friend-"

"In the catacombs?!"

"Well, yes. He was actually looking for our resident Opera Ghost. Anyways, there was a whole fiasco and I fell into the lake, but Erik pulled me out, and I saw his face-"

"No!" she gasped in horror, gaping at Angelique. "Tell me it's not true!"

"I'm afraid it is," she answered with a nod. "I was told I had to stay here-"

"Oh Angelique, I'm so sorry! This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't come searching for me!" wailed Christine, covering her face once more.

Patting her head, Angelique shook her head. "Really, Christine, there's no need for this-"

"How can you say that after everything that's happened?!" she demanded, raising her bloodshot eyes to her new companion. "Erik won't let us leave, and he's tricked me!"

Angelique let the girl hug her, running her fingers through her friend's hair. "He lied and said he was the Angel, didn't he?"

"Yes…yes, he did," she wept, burying her face into the tattered, wet skirts. "He took me through the mirror in my dressing room, and I fainted when I realized he was no angel, but a man. He took me on Cesar, the missing horse from the _Profeta_, and into a boat, and before I knew it, I awoke in this lovely room. He tried to talk to me so I might calm down, but I demanded to know who he was and where we were. I was so furious that when he turned away, I snatched his mask off and…and…oh, the horror!"

Angelique petted the girl's head, her eyes scanning the room. It was just as pretty, if not prettier, than hers. This Erik was truly a genius, as the Persian had told her, for tricking Christine and sneaking her away when no one suspected it. He was obviously a gentleman, as he admired and desired the finer things in life, and struggled to make everything within his power perfect, as he had told her…so long as they did not touch the mask or anger him, he would be civil. "It's all right, Christine…we shall be all right." _"I hope."_ She was not frightened of the man, though his face did put her through a shock. She would survive here, and she would help Christine, but the last thing she wanted was to be trapped against her will once again. Somehow, she had to find a way to win back their freedom…

* * *

**A/N: **I own nothing except OCs. Please review?


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

It was a tireless night – she had barely slept a wink. Christine begged Angelique to stay with her in the room for fear of being alone, to which Angelique surrendered. She sat on the lounge, humming lullabies until the girl finally fell asleep. However, that did not make it any easier for Angelique to earn any rest. She was frantic despite her cool exterior, wondering about the Daroga, Madame Giry and the girls, and fearful that the de Chagnys would figure out where they were and search them out. The last thing she wanted was to get this volatile man infuriated – he was ready to kill at a moment's notice, of that she was quite certain.

After several hours of restlessness, constantly drifting off and nodding in and out of sleep, she finally forced herself up and went for the door. Checking the hallway and satisfied that there was no one around, she quickly scribbled a note on Christine's vanity, only to find another already in place. The writer had used red ink and scratched a hasty message, saying that he would gather her belongings for her stay.

"Erik," she murmured, letting her fingers run over the parchment. "He must have came in when I dozed off…" Placing her note with his, she exited the room and shut the door before running into hers, giving a sigh of relief. Walking to the wardrobe, she was surprised to find a simple spare gown hanging inside. Grateful for the tiny convenience, she hurried to the bathing room and started a bath. Peeling her clothes off of her body, she made a face as she realized how stiff her dress was, and the smell it had acquired from being soaked and worn overnight. Tossing the rags aside, she slide into the tub and gave a sigh of relief. Running her fingers over the warm water lazily, she reveled in the feel of the delicious warmth and the fragrance of the soaps at her disposal. She couldn't remember the last time she had been able to enjoy herself, let alone bathe.

Once she had cleansed herself, she got dressed and combed through her matted locks, wincing as she fought through the knots. At long last, she ran her fingers through her hair, a smile appearing on her face as she began to braid it. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she exited the room and checked on Christine once again. Seeing that she was still sleeping, she left her to rest, exploring her new surroundings.

Entering the parlor, she looked at each door, contemplating which one could possibly lead to the kitchen. "Does he even have a kitchen?" she mumbled, reaching for the closest door available. Turning the knob, she poked her head into the room, her brows furrowing as she squinted in the darkness. "What on earth…?"

The room was encased in shadows, with only a lonely candelabra to light it up. To the far corner of the room was a rather grand organ, covered in papers that overflowed to the floor. The wall to her right was covered in a variety of masks, a small wardrobe separating the set of unique faces that Erik undoubtedly wore on numerous occasions. Closest to the door was a desk, also covered with papers that had been written on in red ink. Numerous plumes and quills were in place, along with an ink urn and stacks of melted, burnt to the core. To the left of the door was a stand where a violin had been placed, several stacks of music also gathered upon it. Casting her eyes to the farthest reach of the room, she squinted and took a step inside, unable to believe what she thought she had seen. Her eyes widened at the sight – a coffin. An actual coffin was placed in the room, the lid open to show the satin lining, the exterior glossy in the dim light.

Covering her mouth in shock, she took a step back, her back bumping against someone. A yelp of surprise flew out of her mouth as she spun around and found herself staring up at her masked captor.

"Did you enjoy taking a sneak peak of Erik's home?" he glared down at her accusingly, his pleasant tone of voice only adding to make the situation even more embarrassing than it already was.

"_Monsieur_, I'm so sorry-!" she began, placing her hand over her heart.

"Oh, no, please. Continue looking about. It is a fascinating room, is it not?" he spoke, a smirk visible through his voice. She stood before him, staring into his eyes, suddenly making him uncomfortable. "Why do you stare at Erik like that-?"

"_Pardon_, _Monsieur le Fantome_, but it is extremely difficult to see just what you are thinking with only your eyes showing. To be fair, however, they do say a lot," she commented.

He blinked at her, stunned. "…what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if you wish to cover your face, that is your choice. However, perhaps you wear a mask that gives you a bit more freedom to actually show what you are feeling-"

He gave a violent, harsh laugh, making her jump. "You wish for Erik to actually _show_ some of his face?" he sneered at her.

"Ah…_oui_," she nodded slowly, remaining upright in her stance. "…it was just a thought." Her voice lowered a smidge, earning his attention as it happened. "Please forgive me, _monsieur_. I was trying to find the kitchen."

"Kitchen?" he echoed.

"I'm not sure what hour it is, but I thought I could make breakfast," she explained humbly, self-consciously reaching for her braid and twirling it between her fingers. She could feel his eyes on her as she avoided his gaze, causing her to grip her braid anxiously. She didn't like not being able to see what people were thinking or feeling…it was how she had managed to survive thus far.

"…the kitchen is through that door," he pointed, one long finger elongated from his palm to show her the way. "Also, it's a little past eight thirty in the morning."

She lifted her head, her line of sight reaching the mask. "How did you-?"

"Erik has a pocket watch," he informed her, pulling it out and showing her. It was a lovely trinket, crafted in gold with delicate engravings and embellishments, ticking merrily.

"Oh…thank you," she said, a smile appearing on her lips. "I…I truly am very sorry about entering your room. Please excuse me."

Erik watched her scoot past him, his hand unconsciously moving to reach out and touch her shoulder. He stopped himself in time, opening his mouth from behind his mask and saying, "Erik has just returned from the Opera House…he brought some of Christine's belongings, but…Erik is afraid he didn't find anything of yours…with the exception of your basket. Erik did manage to bring that."

Her eyes lit up at the mention of the little, hole-filled basket, making his stomach flop. "Merci. That's really all I have."

"Yes, Erik remembers. You came in with that basket and a cloak in dire need of repair," he noted, watching her cheeks flush with embarrassment. "Ah…Erik is sorry-"

"It's quite all right," she shook her head with a meek smile. "To be honest, I hadn't a single thought about its state, nor the time to fix it. Perhaps I'll have time to do so now." Curtsying to him, she began to turn away once more, until he called out again, surprising her.

"Did you mean it?" he asked, his voice somewhat strained as he managed to string the sentence together.

"Mean what?" she asked, facing him once more.

"…wearing a different mask?"

The corners of her mouth twitched upward, her eyes showing no signs of deceit or treachery – only kindness and warmth. "I think it would be better for everyone. You would have more freedom for your face, and something much more comfortable to wear, and Christine and I can actually make out whether you are happy or upset."

"It would be better off for everyone if this face did not exist," he scowled beneath his hiding place. "Christine would not wish to see anything about my face after…after last night." He placed one hand on his forehead woefully, shaking his head sadly and heaving a deep sigh. "…but you ask that Erik change his mask, despite seeing him…why?"

"I gave you my reasons," she shrugged, tugging at her braid before releasing it and interlocking her fingers together. "…and…and it pains me."

He stared, not blinking for an instant at her.

"…please don't do that," she pleaded, biting her lip as she fought not to squirm under his watch. "It pains me, monsieur, that your face be the reason why your talents go unappreciated. I cannot lie, and I hope you can forgive me, your face is…frightening." He grunted at the comment but didn't move, his eyes boring holes into a nearby chair. "But that you should suffer alone because of it and not have someone to turn to…it pains me. I'm certain I have not endured the suffering you have gone through, but I know what it is like to be…abandoned…abused…" Her voice stopped suddenly, choking momentarily as her eyes began to sting with water. Hastily, she wiped her tears away and bowed her head so that he might not see her state. "Excuse me," she whispered, running away at once for the kitchen and shutting the door after her.

Erik watched her, a sudden wave of conflicting emotions hitting him with great force. Turning his face, his eyes fell on the wall of masks, his attention drawn to one in particular that he seldom wore. "What plagues that child?" he murmured, an onslaught of questions assaulting him. Entering his darkened solitude, he reached out and let his bony fingers grasp the edge of the mask. "…perhaps…"

**~OG~**

She was just beginning to pull out the napkins when the door opened. "Good morning, Christine," she smiled politely, moving back to check on the eggs and bacon.

"Good…morning?" she said, the phrase sounding more like a question than and answer. "Oh, my! Did you make all this?"

"Yes," she answered quickly, dicing several fruits before sliding them into a bowl and moving on to remove the meat and eggs from the pan. "I've also made tea. I wasn't sure what everyone would want to eat."

"Wait, 'everyone'?" Christine asked, cocking her head as she let the words wash over her.

"Yes. You, me, and Monsieur Opera Ghost," Angelique nodded, placing the used utensils into the sink.

Christine paled at these words, staring at Angelique as if she had two heads.

"Won't you have a seat in the dining room?" Angelique insisted, motioning towards the chair. Raising her eyes towards the farthest corner of the room where the door to the dining room remained, she added, "_Both_ of you?"

At the mention of the word "both", Christine slowly turned and stared at the corner, her eyes catching sight of an outline. A petrified gasp escaped her mouth as she curled her hands into fists, fighting the urge to screech. Looking away quickly, she gathered her courage and walked quickly, hoping not to converse with her jailor.

Erik said nothing as he watched Christine rush past him, following her at a distance before taking his seat at the head of the table. It had already been set for the most part, with only the food, beverages, and napkins missing. That was soon remedied as Angelique stepped out with the tea tray and placed their napkins in the proper places.

Pouring each member their tea, her attention was suddenly drawn to the Opera Ghost's face. "Oh! You changed it!" she exclaimed, a smile brightening her face. "It's much better, if you don't mind me saying."

His hand immediately went for his mask, his eyes widening at her words. It was a simple white mask, covering everything except his mouth and chin, the start of his hairline now visible as well. He had changed into a clean suit before the meal, as well as the mask, and had not expected such a response from either young woman. "…you think so?"

"Very much," she nodded politely. "It suits you."

"…thank you." He clamped his mouth shut afterwards, seeing how Christine's eyes became large with shock as she looked to and from him and Angelique. He could read her thoughts as though they were an open book: "How could she encourage him to wear something that shows more of his face?! Is she mad?" At this point, he was beginning to wonder whether or not there truly was something wrong with her.

"I'll be back in a moment," she promised, stepping back into the kitchen, leaving Erik and Christine alone.

They avoided their gazes for what felt like years, neither of them touching their tea. Cautiously, Erik raised his eyes and said, "…did you sleep well, Christine?"

She winced at the sound of his voice, making his stomach twist in a knot. Forcefully, she glanced at him and gave a curt nod before staring down at her empty plate.

"Is there anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable?" he asked, his hand rising to cover his mouth as he spoke. It felt strange not having his whole face covered – he almost felt naked without his other mask.

She bit her lip and gave a slight shake of her head, refusing to utter a single word to him.

At long last, Angelique entered the room once again, placing their food before them. Taking her seat, she bowed her head and silently said a prayer before looking up at the two silent companions. "I take it you haven't shared a word since I left?" She noticed how Christine struggled not to fidget in her seat while Erik appeared to cover his mouth in the hopes of not offending or frightening Christine. "…this is going to be harder than I thought."

"Just what exactly _did_ you have in mind, Miss Archambault?" Erik frowned, his hand lowering as he turned his attention to her.

"I simply thought that we all might be able to sit down and talk, like civilized people," she suggested coolly. "Christine, you're acting like a child. We can't leave here, so there's no point in crying about what we can't change-"

"But I don't _want_ to be here!" she burst out, covering her mouth instantly.

"Please, Christine," Erik pleaded, reaching out to her. "You can have anything you like-"

"All I want is to leave!" she cried, recoiling from him at once. "You lie to me, you kidnap me, and then you force me to stay!"

"You saw my face, I had no choice," he growled, his patience wearing thin. "I told you not to touch the mask!"

"You shouldn't have tricked me," she retorted back, tears spilling from her eyes. "You-…you _monster_!"

"How dare you?!" he roared, rising above them menacingly, his eyes burning as he glared at her.

Leaping from her seat, Angelique ran over and placed herself between them. "That's enough!" she snapped harshly, stunning both parties. "If you're going to act like children, then perhaps I should treat you as such!"

"Impudent girl!" Erik snarled.

"Angelique, how could you?!" Christine cried.

"_Enough_!" she shouted, silencing them both. Grabbing Christine's plate, she took the girl by the arm and led her away, her brows furrowed in frustration as she did so. Opening the door, she placed the meal on the vanity and turned on her heel.

"Where are you going?" Christine asked, fear filling her once again as the girl started to leave.

"I need to clean up that mess in the kitchen," she answered curtly. "Shut the door after me, won't you?"

"Angelique, how can you be so calm and friendly towards him?! He's keeping us prisoner!" she demanded, her eyes filled with fresh tears. "I thought you were my friend-"

"I _am_," she insisted, pressing her fingers to her temples. Inhaling deeply, she held her breath and took a moment to cool down before sighing and answering, "Believe me, Christine, I know what it is like to be a prisoner…this is nothing compared to what I've been through. Give him time, and perhaps he will let us go." Having said far too much, she excused herself once again and left for the dining room, leaving Christine to ponder about what she had said.

Shaking her head in discouragement, Angelique opened the door and found Erik slumped in his chair, his head bowed in defeat. "_Monsieur_…?"

"It's hopeless," he moaned. "She knows how Erik's face looks…she could never love him! He truly is a monster."

Releasing yet another sigh, she walked to his side and, after a moment's hesitation, touched his shoulder comfortingly. His head automatically jerked towards her, his eyes glued on her hand before moving to her face, his lips parted in shock and awe.

"She's only just arrived and it's quite a bit to swallow, _monsieur_. I am certain that she will forgive you…however, she does have a point." Her brows began to knit together as she realized he was still staring at her, his body stiff. Seeing her hand on his shoulder, she quickly removed it and clasped her hands behind her back. Clearing her throat, she repeated, "She _does_ have a point. Holding her here against her will won't remedy the situation."

"What are you saying?" he asked, his brows furrowing from under his mask, his voice lowering.

Standing firm, she looked him in the eye and stated, "I am saying, monsieur that holding her captive is wrong. Surely, you can trust her to keep your secret-"

"You don't understand anything, child," he snapped, rising once more to his full height and towering over her, his shadow filling up the room. He reminded her of a snake – tall, thin, imposing, with hypnotic eyes that she found she could not look away from, his voice alluring, even when he was furious. "If Erik lets her go, she shall never return! Erik will never see her again-!"

"But doesn't her happiness mean anything to you?!" she argued, startling him as she took a step forward and fought to reason with him. "If you truly love her as you claim you do, let her go, and perhaps your efforts will be rewarded-"

"Ah, but there is that key word, my dear. 'Perhaps'." His lips curled into a dark smile, a chuckle escaping him as he shook his head. "No…it is best to keep her here, and she will come to love Erik little by little."

"Don't you see that you're hurting her and yourself?!" she stomped her foot, absolutely frustrated with his thoughts and actions. "You are perhaps the most stubborn, careless man I've ever met-!"

"_**Silence**_!" he boomed, sending her reeling back several steps. He glared down at her as she gawked back at him, his temper already on fire. "Erik does not take orders from anyone…much less a girl who knows nothing about him, nothing about what he has suffered…go and be a good maid now, clean the kitchen, throw away this swill!" His eyes narrowed at her as he took another step towards her, adding with a harsh smile, "Scrub the floors if you are so concerned about keeping the place tidy, girl-"

Her hands were upon him in second, sending him back with a powerful shove. He wobbled, stunned by the action, and opened his mouth to berate her yet again when he saw something he had never seen since she had entered the _Palais Garnier_ – tears. True, she wept when she first came in and fell asleep, but these were tears he was extremely familiar with – hurt, suffering, pain, humiliation, scars, and anger.

"Don't you _dare_ talk to me like that," Angelique said hotly, her voice trembling as large droplets broke free and stained her face. "I will _not_ be a slave _again_ – I _won't_!" Covering her face, she bolted out of the room like a madwoman, uncontrollable sobs filling the air, fading out once she slammed the door to her room.

Erik remained perfectly still, his mind spinning from confusion and shock at her reaction. "…Erik…has made Angelique cry…and not from his face…" A hot, terrible wave washed over him from within, a feeling he was rather unused to – shame. He was ashamed of his face, of course, but he had never felt shame for anything he did or said to anyone, not even tricking Christine into thinking he was the angel her father promise. Yet, here it was, sliding throughout his veins as he realized that something terrible had happened to her, something that hurt her so much that even she, so firm and unyielding, so supportive to both him and Christine, had broken and actually wept. She wept, not from his face, but from his words. Reaching up, he touched his face, his fingertips landing upon his exposed lips. "Perhaps…Erik is a different form of monster," he whispered, his gaze wandering towards the door, his mind on the auburn-haired seamstress whose stormy eyes now shed her own sad, salty rain.

* * *

**A/N: **I own nothing except the OC and crazy plot tweeks. I hope you enjoyed - please don't forget to leave a review and let me know what you thought of the chapter/fic/just about anything in the story (and check out Kickstarter if you're interested in supporting a great Phantom film!). See you next time!


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

Checking on happenings in his opera house always helped Erik clear his mind when he was in troubled or irritated. He locked the door to his home before leaving and made his way through the lake and up the secret passages until he arrived at the opera. Remaining in the shadows, he slunk through the corridors until he found the hidden door he desired. Pressing a button, he slipped inside once more, casting a glance at the outside before shutting the door from within. Pulling the rim of his wide-brimmed fedora over his masked face, he walked calmly towards the managers' office, a new note in his hand waiting to be delivered.

Coming to the secret trapdoor in the office, he listened for a moment before pushing it open, his eyes scanning the area. There was no one at home for the moment, a perfect chance to reach up and place his letter on the desk where they would see it. Shutting the door over his head, he tightened the clasp on his midnight cloak before stepping away towards the halls that would take him to the front of the opera. It was strange that the managers were not in their room that morning, and he was curious to see just where they were.

Even before he found his perch – a nifty and clever hiding space behind a curtain at the top of stairway in the grand foyer – he could hear heated conversation, instantly earning his attention. Slipping into position, he inclined his head and peeped over the side, catching a glance at who could possibly be there at this hour.

"_Madame_, I assure you, if we knew where your daughter was, we would tell you-" Monsieur Moncharmin reassured their early clients, though there was an underlying tone that gave off the impression that he did not wish to share such information with the stranger. Both he and Madame Giry stood their ground as they spoke with the three visitors, none of which looked pleasant.

"_Step_-daughter, _monsieur_," a woman sneered as she corrected him. "She is an ungrateful little wretch who has up and left, running away from home and leaving us in a panic."

"_They certainly do not look panicked,"_ Erik noted with a frown as he took in the other members of the party.

The woman in charge was a tall, thin character, with a sharp angled face and piercing green eyes. Her dark brown hair was streaked with grey, wrapped into an elegant bun atop her head. She wore a long black dress, embellished with fine embroidery and appearing to have been made out of one piece of fine fabric. With this woman were two others – most likely her children. The first was a man, about thirty years of age, just as tall and intimidating as his mother. His bright red hair was combed back, leaving his green eyes free to glare down as his mouth permanently scowled at the manager and box keeper, an obnoxious cleft in his chin adding to his pompous nature. The girl with them was the shortest of the group, but she made up for it with her haughty nature. She couldn't have been much older than Angelique and Christine, her brown eyes almost appearing to be black, her nose turned up disdainfully at the commoners. Her brown hair hung in ringlets around her face as she violently curled and tugged one on a long, thin finger. Both children wore fine clothes also, with beautiful accents and embellishments.

"Angelique is a horrid child, ungrateful and spoiled," sniffed the woman. "She doesn't deserve to have our concern, but it would break my dearly departed husband's heart of I didn't go looking for her."

"_Angelique?!"_ Erik's eyes widened at the mention of the girl. _This_ was her family?

"We saw the girl pass through one night," Madame Giry answered hotly. "She slept on the steps and we had to shoo her away in the morning. Had we known she was of your family, Madame Acharmbault-Lenoir, we would have asked her to come in. To be perfectly frank, with the attire she wore, we mistook her as a street urchin."

The two women exchanged harsh glances, neither one happy to be in the company of the other. "I see… you have no idea where she could possibly be?"

"None, I'm afraid," Moncharmin said politely, shaking his head. "Perhaps you should check in town."

With another contemptuous glare at Giry, the woman curtly bid them good day and excused herself, stepping out into the street with her children in tow. Keeping a close eye on them, Erik began to move away when he heard Giry whisper, "What an awful woman! And she calls herself a mother."

"Now, now, Madame, remain calm," Moncharmin reasoned with her, walking up the steps of the grand staircase with the reinstated concierge. "She cannot find Mademoiselle Archambault if we do not know where she is… and we truly have no idea where she has gone." He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "With all the madness that went on last night, we hadn't noticed she had gone missing until _Comte de Chagny_ came in this morning asking for her."

A dark tremor flowed through Erik as he heard the news of the Comte. He was beginning to despise him as much as that bratty little brother of his. Why was he so interested in Angelique, anyway?

"She will turn up, of that much I am certain," Jules Giry stated stubbornly. "I know she shall…"

Waiting until they were out of sight, Erik moved swiftly, not wanting to lose sight of the step-family searching for the new seamstress. Slipping through the hidden corridors and passages, Erik stalked his way through until he arrived at the west wall, lifting the slot of a grate before squinting out and taking a look around, finally catching sight of three pairs of feet.

"I am going to skin that girl when I finally find her," Madame Archambault-Lenoir hissed, cussing Erik's blood to curdle in disgust of the woman.

"We shan't feed her either, shall we, Maman?" the girl asked with a cruel giggle.

"No, Helen, we shan't," she cooed, clearly coddling her daughter. She sighed soon after, turning to face her son. "Yes Maurice, you may do with her what you like, but don't damage her too much, she still has to be able to stand and work."

"Of course, Mother," the man chuckled, his laugh rough and dark. "I shan't hurt her too badly."

"Good boy," she said sweetly. "Now, let's see if we can find the little wench in-"

"_**Hell."**_

The three figures froze at the sound of his voice. Erik grinned wickedly, enjoying their fear as he deepened his voice just a smidge and cast if off to sound as if it came from below their feet. _**"I shall carry thee all to Hell…"**_ he hissed, wishing he could see their faces.

"M-Maman…?" Helen whimpered, ready to faint at once.

"Who is there?!" demanded Lady Archambault-Lenoir, shaken to the core by the horrific voice that seeped from below the ground.

"_**Do not return to the opera again, lest you wish to meet Angelique in Hell, where she is mine…FOREVER!"**_ He cackled manically, struggling not to laugh as the women screamed – even the young man, Maurice, wailed like a child, before they ran off, quaking in their shoes. Pulling away from the grate once they had vanished, she covered his mouth in an effort to suppress his laughter, rather pleased with himself for scaring them away. "If that does not keep them away, Erik does not know what shall." Adjusting his hat over his head, he placed the slab back in its spot as a notion popped into his brain. Pursing his lips in contemplation, he came to a decision at last and took off down the passage, in dire need of francs, paper, and his special ink.

**~OG~**

Rounding the corner, Madame Giry glanced over her shoulder before stepping into Box Five. She was extremely grateful and pleased that she had been reinstated into her old position – no doubt influenced by the Opera Ghost and his mayhem caused the night before – but she was also very away of the managers' alertness and suspicion of her. The last thing she wanted was to get in trouble again, but she would not abandon the one who promised her daughter a bright future.

Standing at the center of the box, she waited, knowing that by this time, having completed her rounds, he would want to speak with her. Her eyes wandered to the seats, however, and her eyes lit up at the sight of a little box of English sweets placed upon a slip of paper, a little sack beside it on one of the chairs.

"Madame Giry," the familiar voice of the Ghost spoke, flowing all around her. "I am most delighted to see you have returned."

"As am I," she agreed, bobbing her head politely to the chair, though she really had no idea as to the source of the voice. "I understand it is thanks to you, _monsieur_."

"Partially," he answered vaguely. "I have a little welcoming gift, _Madame_, on the chair for you."

"You are too kind," she blushed, though she refrained from reaching out. There was more to be discussed, she knew, and she did not want to appear greedy to the invisible patron.

"And you are flattering. Now, Madame, I have an important matter to discuss – that paper on the seat, and the money with it, are for you to do some errands for me."

"Of course," she said, puffing out her chest just a bit, proud to be doing such work for the great Phantom. "May I see the list?"

"Please do," he answered. The voice paused for a moment, waiting for her to open the paper and read its contents. "Can you gather these items by suppertime?"

She read the paper, blinked, then reread it again. "…_oui_, I can…you have a lady, _monsieur_?"

"That is none of your concern," he said coldly.

"Forgive me, but I believe it is," she frowned. "I take it this young lady is either Christine Daae or Angelique Archambault. If it is the latter, I am quite concerned for her. I found the poor girl freezing in the cold and helped her get a job. She had nothing, and now there is a terrible woman searching for her, claiming that she is her step-mother. I may not know Angelique all that well, and she may not be my own daughter, but I worry for the child. She was kind to my daughter and the other girls, and works hard to help and please others, therefore, I find that she is indeed my concern."

There was a heavy silence that hung over her in the air, causing her to grip her shawl tightly, worried that she had offended the ghost. At long last, she heard a sigh.

"You need not worry, Madame Giry. She is safe under my protection – however, she does need clothes and other feminine items, and I would be most thankful if you would collect them today."

"Ah! I see," she nodded, a smile growing on her face. "Very well. I do hope she returns soon – we are in dire need of the new costumes."

"You shall have your new costumes, I shall see to it," he answered coolly. "Now go, Madame. Leave the materials here in the box and I shall collect them. You shall receive payment for your troubles."

"If it's for dear Angelique, it's unnecessary, _monsieur_, but I thank you all the same," she shook her head. Curtsying, she gathered the three items and left Box Five at once, mumbling to herself on what she should do once she arrived at the market.

Satisfied, Erik departed from his hiding place, moving quickly towards his next destination. He crossed nimbly through the rafters above the stage and swung down into the hall, checking over his shoulder every so often for any unwanted viewers. Stepping towards the repair's room, he stopped, hearing voices from within. Thinking fast, he slid behind one of the props – a castle for _Romeo and Juliet_ – and peered through the tiny hole of a window to see who was in the room.

The door swung open and two men stepped out, both equally agitated for very different reasons. "Are you quite satisfied, _Comte_? I've already told you that Mademoiselle Archambault is nowhere to be found," Firmin Richard repeated, exasperated that the man was so determined to find her. "We have not seen her since last night!"

"There must be some clue as to her whereabouts!" Philippe insisted, his brows furrowed in frustration. "People do not just up and vanish!"

"Tell that to Archambault and Daae," the manager muttered.

"I tell you, Monsieur Richard, she must be here somewhere!"

"If you find her, please tell her to get back to work – we need those costumes fixed at once!"

Erik bit his tongue as he watched them depart, still bickering all the while. Glaring malevolently at them, he sneered before stalking out and into the room. Setting to work, he caught sight of the stack of sketches Angelique had begun as inventory of the outfits, as well as the catalog Moncharmin had given to her. Gathering these, he selected a variety of simple outfits before searching the walls for a loose nail. Grasping the item, he shoved it into place, watching the planks of wood shift away, leading to another hidden passage. Setting the items into the hall, he languidly walked back to the workbench and checked the materials available, selecting what he deemed to be appropriate for the current costumes he was able to gather.

"Check in here again, Meg!" little Jammes's voice drifted in, causing him to jump. Whirling around, he could see their shadows in the hall through the crack from the door. Working fast, he snatched two more bolts of cloth before jumping into the opening and shutting it from within. Tossing the materials aside, he placed his hand over his heart and gave a sigh of relief, growling as he heard the girls enter.

"I told you we wouldn't find anything," he heard Meg grumble, when Jammes gasped in shock.

"Look! Her pictures are gone!"

"They were sketches, actually-"

"And the catalog, and look! Those shelves are empty! They were full of cloth this morning!"

Meg gasped, acknowledging her friend's discovery. "Heavens, so they are!"

"It's the Phantom!" squealed Jammes, causing Erik to roll his eyes at them. "Quick! We need to find Sorelli!"

"What's she going to do about it?" Meg asked.

"Nothing, obviously, but we have to tell someone!"

Erik chuckled as he listened to them scurry out, looking down at the items he had collected. "_Mon Dieu_…that was close."

**~OG~**

Angelique's eyelids fluttered open slowly, reluctant to obey her brain's command. Groaning, she raised her hand to her face and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

Since running away from Erik, she had locked herself in her room and cried herself to sleep, waking nearly an hour later to Christine knocking on her door. The two were alone and remained together in Angelique's room, speaking softly for fear that the Opera Ghost might pop in when they least expected.

"What happened earlier? I heard you both raising your voices and then you were crying and slammed the door," Christine asked, perplexed by all the drama she had missed.

"Oh, our tempers got the better of us and I got frustrated," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her heart still stung from the insults he had tossed at her, and she knew that when he came back, he might not be so kind or merciful to her confrontations against him.

The girls shared a quiet lunch before splitting off once more. Christine locked herself in the bathroom while Angelique locked her door and pulled out a single item from her basket that Erik had left in her room. Her fingers traced the curves of the frame while she stared at the portrait within, her eyes watering unconsciously as she remembered her past. Curling up on her bed, clutching the photo to her breast, she wept once more, tired of running and putting up walls, drifting back into sleep.

Now, as she awoke once more, she sighed and forced herself to sit up, wondering just what time it was. Picking up the photo, she slipped it back into her basket and entered her bathroom, washing her face and unbraiding her messy hair. Looking at her reflection, she bit her lip and inhaled deeply. _"There's no point in hiding…that's why I came here, isn't it? So I wouldn't have to cower anymore. I won't let him frighten me, and I can't let his words get to me…no matter how painful."_ Stepping away from the small mirror, she forced herself to walk out into the hall, glancing over at Christine's door as she passed. _"She's asleep,"_ she thought, continuing on her way towards the Louis-Philippe room, when she heard movement taking place. Her brows furrowed in confusion at this. _"Odd…"_ "Christine?" she called out. "Is that you-?"

The elegant room appeared to have been taken over by a tailor, with mannequins and costumes, a set of boxes and bags set by one chair, as a masked man set a bolt of cloths down by the fireplace. Her eyes widened at this, her jaw nearly dropping as she raised her hand to her lips. "What-?!"

"Ah, you're awake," he noted, brushing a speck of dust from his shoulder before turning to face her, taking his fedora off upon seeing her. "Erik has been quite busy since this morning."

"…what time is it?" she asked, still stunned from the sight.

"Suppertime. Nearly seven, last Erik checked," he informed her, clasping his hands behind his back as he took a few steps towards her. He paused, waiting for her to say something, anything at all, but there was nothing. She could only stand and stare at all the items, unable to believe that he had brought it all down to his house. "…Erik thought that, perhaps, you might like something to do…the designs and catalog are here, and these are the costumes that you already have materials for," he explained awkwardly, motioning towards the mannequins and related items. "Erik has also give you some ideas for other designs, should you be interested."

Still she gawked, her eyes falling upon the boxes.

"Ah, those are yours, also. Erik had Madame Giry run into town to make some purchases."

"Purchases?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow at him.

"You do not have your own clothes," Erik clarified, pointing at the little hill of items he had bought for her. "Erik thought you might like to have your own things…Giry got them this afternoon, and Erik…he thought that…perhaps-"

"Why?"

The word struck him suddenly, his eyes suddenly locked with hers, as if there was a magnetic force that made them connect at once. His heart began to thump violently within him, making him wonder whether or not he was ill.

"Why did you do this? I thought you hated me," she said, her eyes and voice tinted with the hurt that he had seen this morning.

"Hate you?" he asked, his voice lowering to a soft whisper. "…Erik thought you hated him."

She gazed at him, making him want to squirm. Slowly, she moved her eyes from him to the boxes of clothes, the costumes, the materials, and finally back to him. "…are you trying to apologize?"

He stiffened, straightening a bit and crossing his arms over his chest, clearing his throat as he stammered, "E-Erik does not like to be proven wrong…however, he is…very sorry for what he said." His eyes darted back to her as he added, "He saw your step-family today at the opera." He watched as she now stiffened, her eyes unwittingly flashing with fear as her face paled. His stomach churned at the memory of the horrid family making promises to ruin her life for all time, compelling him to walk towards her and reach for her shoulder. Realizing what he was doing, he stopped, pulling his hand away before he worsened the situation. "Madame Giry and Monsieur Moncharmin sent them away…they do not know you are here…the family, that is. Erik has left a letter with the managers stating that you and Miss Daae will be away for a time, but shall return as soon as possible. He also made sure that those cretins would not return to search for you here."

There were tears in her eyes once more as he spoke, and he feared that perhaps he had gone too far, until he heard her whisper, "…thank you."

He blinked, startled by the simple words. He remained still as a statue as she reached and cautiously wrapped her fingers around his right hand, a strangled gasp escaping him.

"You didn't have to do all of this…you have no idea how much this means to me, _monsieur_-" she confessed.

"Erik," he breathed. "My name is Erik, not '_monsieur_'." He grimaced at once, wanting to smack himself for his stupidity. Why did he insist on her saying his name?!

"Erik," she whispered, making his heart leap into his throat as he listened to her utter his name and gently bring his hand to her lips. "Thank you…Erik."

The moment her lips were pressed onto his yellow, bony, cold hand, he trembled and released a soft cry, falling to his knees and clutching the skirts of her dress, weeping into them.

"Erik?!" she gasped, frightened by his reaction. "Have I done something wrong-?!"

"No woman has ever kissed Erik, forced or willingly," he cried, still covering his masked face with her skirt. "Not on his face, not even his hands! Oh, Angelique…!"

Her eyes leaked tears, a sad smile growing on her lips as she reached down and run her fingers through his hair, her free hand placed on his neck. "Poor Erik," she said gently, letting him sob into her dress. "Poor, dear Erik…"

* * *

**A/N: **Phew! I felt like this took forever! Anyways, I own nothing except the OCs and I hope you enjoyed this one. Please let me know what you thought of it (any of the characters too OOC?). Thanks so much for the continued support and I'll see you next time!


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